Evil is Man
by TammiTam
Summary: After a hunt goes wrong, Sam tries to escape with a bit of liquor and a game of pool … and learns that demons just don’t take defeat easily! Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean!
1. Chapter 1

He could still smell the coppery tang of blood (Dean's blood) and the acidic sulfur that seemed to permeate everything; his hair, his clothes, Sam even swore he could feel it still, one hot shower later, on his skin

After a hunt goes wrong, Sam tries to escape with a bit of liquor and a game of pool … and learns that demons just don't take defeat easily! Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean!

This story was originally begun by me for a round robin story over at SBA. (If you don't know what that is, follow the link in my profile!) So while I began it, I fully expect it to sway from the original conglomeration, as I didn't write all of the original, just the first chapter, which is here, in its entirety. It was just one of those things that niggled at me to complete, so everything after chapter one, while still my creation, swayed off course as it is from my perspective rather than the group.

Sadly, the boys don't belong to me, though that leprechaun I've kidnapped has assured me that my wish will be granted soon!

What's even sadder? This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine! Mine I tell you, all mine!

Reviews are the best drugs alive! They give you a good high, leave you begging for more, and have no side effects!

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He could still smell the coppery tang of blood (Dean's blood) and the acidic sulfur that seemed to permeate everything; his hair, his clothes, Sam even swore he could feel it still, one hot shower later, on his skin. And while the whiskey that he was nursing left a nice burn down his throat and into his stomach, it didn't do much to drown out the screams of that girl that _begged _him to make it stop, to make it all go away.

He had; he'd shot her.

Put her down like a dog, dragged his brother to safety, then hightailed it for the motel where, one patch job later, left Dean passed out in the bed closest to the door and Sam … well, Sam here, in this crap bar where he was currently drinking away the guilt.

Or at least trying to.

Across the smoke filled room of a bar Dean would have definitely felt at home in, Sam glanced to the game of pool that had been going on since he'd come in here. While some of the players switched and changed, one always remained the same; one big biker dude who sported a leather jacket that bore the patch that no doubt signified his 'gang'. The gang consisted, at least in this bar, of one wiry man who, while thin, had a mean look to him much like a ferret, and Sam could tell instantly he was more than he appeared. There was also a large man who was more girth than brains (judging by his miscalculations in the game) and another smaller man who seemed to suffer from Napoleon Syndrome. And then there was the drunken redhead that floated from one to the other, but always came back to Big Biker Dude.

"You don't want any of that, sweetie."

Sam turned his head to glance at the waitress, an older woman of about forty, who, while still slightly pretty, looked like she was once a knock out before life dragged her down.

"Huh?'

"Them. They're no good. Sweet thing like yourself could get hurt."

The Sam that was in Stanford might have heeded her warning. He was, after all, the young kid that wanted to play it safe. But he was no longer that boy with dreams of college and a wife and kids. Sam was all Winchester, and if there was one thing that Sam inherited from John, it was stubbornness.

Not to mention that snarky pigheadedness that came straight from Dean and a determination that was plain and simply … Sam.

Flashing the waitress a dimpled smile that belied innocence, Sam downed the amber contents of the glass and stood to his full height of 6'4".

"I think I can handle myself."

Sam had one thing going for him in a situation like this; he looked every bit the naïve college kid. And, with their pockets empty from a hunt gone wrong and his mood dark, Sam had the drive to pull this one off and walk out of there with that puppy dog look that seemed to fool everyone but his brother.

Dean knew that Sam could kick ass when he wanted to … when he needed to.

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It took about fifteen minutes to get the goons to notice him. Another ten before they asked if he wanted to play. Sam grinned and made his way from his table (where he'd played solo) to theirs before nodding with that utterly boyish (if not cleverly placed) grin.

"Sure. My brother taught me, though I'm not nearly as good as he is."

Now that wasn't a complete lie … was it?

"This is the big league kid, we play for money."

Sam shrugged and grinned, causing the men around him to just beam. They had their sucker.

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Sam lost the first game, though he made enough decent shots to make the second game win plausible. He threw the third completely, and by the forth, when Frank, as Big Biker Dude was named, decided to go for broke … Sam took the table. He would have quit there, but Frank and his _gang _decided they needed the opportunity to win back their money, but after the sixth game, he had to call it quits. He couldn't have Dean wake up alone and start scouring the streets for him.

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"I'm sorry guys, but I really have to go cram for an exam and …"

"And run off with our money?"

"Hey, you're the one who suggested we play for it."

"Then why don't you just give it back then?"

"Would you have given mine back?"

Silence ensued for a moment before Sam shook his head. "That's what I thought."

Sam could have said later that it all started when he took up the game, but that wasn't true was it? He'd looked over his competition, and he was smart enough, good enough to read people fairly well; it was a Winchester trait. So it wasn't that he missed it, it was that it wasn't there, not at first, not when he took up that game. It didn't come until after, when Frank laid a strong hand on Sam's shoulder, the action hardly meant to be sympathizing.

It was that moment that Sam knew he was about to have to fight or flee.

Turning, his mouth opened to say something, anything (because Sam prided himself on not going off half cocked) when he caught sight of the weasel (appropriate name, huh?) and the way his eyes went from blue … to black as a grin curled into something far more sinister than the thought of teaching some college kid a lesson.

"Hit him, Frankie."

That was the moment that Sam realized he'd been set up to be ripped apart … all at the hands of a demon.

"Hit him with this…"

The knife he was passing to Frank wasn't anything near what was used for cutting food. It was long, curved, and utterly deadly. That knife, it wasn't for show, for toying with, it was used to kill, nothing less. And as Frank's hand wrapped around the hilt, Sam knew it was now or never. The urge to flee kicked into overtime, but he also knew he wasn't getting out without one thing.

So the more passive of the Winchester's balled up his hand, drew back his fist, and slammed it into Frankie's nose … drawing first blood.

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Reviews are like chocolate, so please; if you like the story let me know!

Coming up: Dean!

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	2. Chapter 2

After a hunt goes wrong, Sam tries to escape with a bit of liquor and a game of pool … and learns that demons just don't take defeat easily! Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean!

This story was originally begun by me for a round robin story over at SBA. (If you don't know what that is, follow the link in my profile!) So while I began it, I fully expect it to sway from the original conglomeration, as I didn't write all of the original, just the first chapter, which is here, in its entirety. It was just one of those things that niggled at me to complete, so everything after chapter one, while still my creation, swayed off course as it is from my perspective rather than the group.

That damn Leprechaun escaped. Who knew they could chew through duct tape! So I've my trusty shovel with plans of digging my way to Canada! Cover me, I'm going in! I'll own the boys yet, I tell ya!

What's even sadder that not owning the boys? This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine! Mine I tell you, all mine!

Reviews are the best drugs alive! They give you a good high, leave you begging for more, and have no side effects!

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"_Oh God, it's in me, it's in me!"_

"_Sam now!"_

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas …"_

_The girl who had been screaming for help a moment before suddenly growled and flicked her wrist, the bonds breaking so easily before a black gaze leveled on Dean and a raucous laugh echoed out … a laugh that was so like Sam's when that bitch Meg had possessed him._

_But this wasn't Sam; this was a girl who, in moments of lucidity, begged them for help._

"…_omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi …"_

_"Sam, it's …" _

_But the rest never made it out as he went flying across the old warehouse that he and Sam had chosen to exorcise the poor girl in who had been terrorizing the small town of Midland, Texas._

_Why did everything happen in small towns? That crossed Dean Winchester's mind as he picked himself up off the floor, only to try his hand at acrobatics once more, though this time he hit the wall and stuck._

_"… eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis …"_

_Unfortunately for Dean, the warehouse they were in was full of metal working tools; tools that were suddenly flying at him at a speed that made him uncomfortable to say the least._

_"DEAN!"_

_He felt an explosion of pain in his side and another ripple in his left thigh. Somewhere in the back of his mind the drone of Latin ceased._

_"Oh God, make it stop, please, make it stop!"_

_Another round of weaponry flew at him, making his world fizzle in and out in black and white spots._

_"Please, make it stop, make it…"_

_The last sound he heard was the gunshot that reverberated throughout the warehouse._

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Dean Winchester awoke with a start, one that reminded him that his head wasn't quite with the program. In fact, his head had forgotten what the program was hours ago and went off on its own little agenda without permission.

Damn head should be fired. And he would have fired it … if it weren't so damn good-looking! But that was neither here nor there. What the important thing was was that he was alive, and …

"Sam…"

The lack of response had Dean lifting his rebellious head, an act that did two things; it gave him a view of an empty room … and it made his stomach follow suit of his head and rebel.

Somehow Dean was able to pull himself off that bed and make it to the bathroom before whatever was left in his stomach decided to come back up for an encore. It was not wanted or appreciated! Somewhere in the midst of his retching, he spotted the note placed at the bathroom mirror, a place Sam was certain that Dean would have looked, either by brushing his teeth, washing his face … or just admiring the view!

The note, however, was left waiting as he waited for his stomach to settle and his head to calm enough to allow him up. It was the smell of his own vomit that got him moving, if for nothing else but to reach for the handle and flush. Well, then there was the whole rinse your mouth out of ick thing. Not to mention Sam's note … which meant Sam wasn't here … which meant things he didn't want to think about! Regardless, as soon as Dean dragged himself from the toilet and rose, he snatched the note to read Sam's quickly penned:

_Out. Be back soon. Sam_

With a frown, Dean went back to the bed to wait.

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One thing that could be said about Dean Winchester, he wasn't a very patient man, at least not when it came to waiting. So it only took 15 minutes before he'd left their latest crummy abode to find his wayward brother. It didn't take much looking; after all, Sam left the Impala, which meant he was hoofing it. In fact, the first bar he came to he almost passed by, all because it was some seedy place that he didn't think Sam would ever step foot in, but judging by the size of this town, it might be the only one within walking distance.

So he chose to enter just in case (that niggling in the back of his head suddenly taking that moment to tell him something was wrong) and parked close to the door … again, just in case.

The inside, however wasn't exactly what he expected. Well, maybe, if he had been the cause of the ruckus that was the interior; because Dean was known to cause a few bar fights in his day.

"If yer planning on making a worse mess, best be getting on out, boy!"

Dean turned to see an older man, gruff and hard set; a man that instantly reminded him of Bobby. His mouth opened to speak when a female voice cut in.

"Don't mind Earl, he don't mean no harm, just don't take kindly to strangers … all things considered. Now what can I get ya?"

Dean turned to the fortyish woman and grinned, laying on that Winchester charm that all three Winchester men seemed to possess, just at varying degrees.

"Yeah, I was looking for my brother. Tall, shaggy brown hair, puppy dog eyes, dimples, and …"

And she paled, gray eyes cutting to Earl, then back to Dean.

"They … carried him out."

"What? Who?! Is he okay? Is he at a hospital…"

"Frank and his gang. I told him not to get involved in their game, but he didn't listen. I've just … I've never seem them be so vicious before."

Leaning on the bar, Dean's green eyes leveled on her gray ones, and in that instant she knew one thing about him, about him and his brother … someone was going to pay dearly for all of this.

"Tell me what happened."

"He was … trying to leave when they stopped him. I've never seen someone fight so damn hard to get to the door, and against four. Though he did. Almost made it too, would have if Brett hadn't hit him over the head with a bottle."

"Where … is my brother?"

The words were deadly, slow, and calculated through clenched teeth causing Betsy to wring her hands in her apron.

"Where is Sam?"

_Sam. _The poor kid had a name, one that suited him. She could still see his smile, his dimples. And something else, something that seemed to be eating away at the very heart of him.

"They dragged him out."

"Where would they take him?"

"I don't know."

Dean's fist hit the bar, causing bottles to jump and jiggle. Earl turned his head, the broom in hand being lifted slightly in a defensive stance.

"Baker Street. It's where they usually go. But there will be more of them, there…"

But she was talking to his back as he strode across the floor. Dean had a brother to find, and someone was going to pay for taking him from him. He only paused when he spotted the pool of blood on the floor near a shattered bottle that was no doubt dropped.

Oh there was going to be hell to pay.

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Don't forget to leave me some candy! I'll … love you forever!

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	3. Chapter 3

After a hunt goes wrong, Sam tries to escape with a bit of liquor and a game of pool … and learns that demons just don't take defeat easily! Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean!

I was on my way to Canada when Henrickson's predecessor brought me in for questioning. And after hours of questioning, I stuck to my story … that I was a dumb pledge and I'd been hazed. I think the fact that I'm well over 20 made him not believe me! Anyway, I'll get those boys yet! But for now, they belong to Kripke.

What's even sadder? This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine! Mine I tell you, all mine!

Reviews are the best drugs alive! They give you a good high, leave you begging for more, and have no side effects! And many thanks to those of you that have reviewed thus far, you guys rock!

I would like to make one note … a very strong one. I am a fan of _both _brothers. And while I do favor one over the other, I will in no way tolerate bashing … including in a review. If this means I don't get one, then I suppose I'll just be one (or a few, who knows!) less, and I'll still be happier knowing I tried dictating what the show is all about … _both _brothers.

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The very first thing Sam was aware of was the throbbing pound in his head. It wasn't even one of those aches that are in the backdrop of consciousness; it was mean and demanded immediate attention, causing a groan in response. A groan which he immediately regretted for the sharp pain that little noise caused.

His mouth tried to work, tried to formulate that one word that he just knew would make everything better.

"D…."

But the word failed, and the one sound he did manage to create came out in a croak. One that made him aware of the second thing; he tasted copper. It reminded him of something he should have remembered, something niggling at a brain that just wouldn't cooperate.

"_He's waking up…"_

A voice sounded distant, far off, and with it came the third realization as he tried to open his eyes … his face felt … sticky and crusty at the same time. There was something dried and warm against his brow and down his cheek, and as he went to touch, to brush it, the fourth realization hit; he couldn't move his hands.

"Dean…"

His voice worked that time, though it sounded dry and raspy. And again he tasted copper, strong and rich like blood, _his blood_. Forcing his head to lift, he opened his eyes only to shut them again with a grunt of pain as what little light there was in the room damn near blinded him, and made his head pound all the more.

That and the raucous laughter.

With a little more controlled effort, Sam forced his head back up and his eyes back open to spy five (at least he thought it was five!) pairs of eyes staring back.

"_Maybe you hit him too hard."_

"_Don't be ridiculous! Bastard deserved it."_

"_Can you hear me honey?"_

"_Shut up, Rebecca!"_

Unfocused greens glanced from one (Frank) to the next, his gaze skimming on by the red head (much to her chagrin) to land on the little guy (Napoleon syndrome, remember, Sam?) then the big dumb guy (who can't make a shot to save his life) but finally landed on the weasel (or was it ferret?) to watch eyes go from blue … to black … as the rodent looking man grinned a feral smile.

"Ahh shit!"

And up he went, or tried to. The fact that his arms and legs were tied to the chair dragged him right back down the inch or two he made it with a thud.

"Uh, God, shit…"

And despite the ties, Sam struggled, trying to move away … not because he feared the men (wouldn't Frankie be disappointed?) but because he very much feared the demon that was in possession of the weasel.

"Maybe you shoulda thought about it before hustling us, eh kid?"

Sam Winchester had three things going for him in most cases, though in this one, it seemed to work against him (it usually did when the shit was hitting the proverbial fan, didn't it?) in such a way as to stack the already dangerous odds even higher.

First and foremost was that he was John Winchester's son. John "Do As I Say and Not as I Do" Winchester. John so damn stubborn he won't even fill his sons in on the plan Winchester. The same John that Bobby Singer tried to shoot full of buckshot. The same one that seemed to have a falling out with just about everyone.

Sam was his son through and through.

Secondly was that he was Dean Winchester's brother. Dean "Never Know When to Shut Up" Winchester. Dean who would snark his way to death Winchester. The same Dean that told a cannibal to eat him. The same one that seemed to piss off every demon this side of hell.

Sam was his brother through and through.

And last (but hardly least!) was that he was Sam Winchester. Sam "Argue with a Brick Wall" Winchester. Sam who was a plethora of useless knowledge (and broodiness!) Winchester. The same Sam who tries to talk his way out of things, but when all else fails, he has been known to take down SWAT units. The same one that demons seemed to flock to … and lose.

Sam was his own man … and at times, was every good or bad thing the Winchester's possessed … depending on the situation. It was that Sam that looked at Frank and smirked.

"Maybe if you weren't so stupid…"

The fist that backhanded across his jaw was instantaneous as Frank all but growled at him; but Frank was the least of his worries … that black-eyed ferret (or was it weasel?) was what bothered Sam.

But it was more than a bother. More than a worry about him. Because in all of this he had to wonder … where was Dean? The last Sam remembered was leaving him, quite passed out, in the motel.

He hoped he was still there.

The last thing Sam wanted to know was that Dean was somehow here too, that Dean was hurt (or worse) at the hands of this black-eyed bastard.

With a shake of his head to try and regain his equilibrium after that hit, he lifted his head, the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth ignored for the fact that he couldn't swipe it away even if he wanted to.

"Maybe if you'd learn to keep your mouth shut …"

Sam took a breath, closed his eyes, and started speaking in hopes that he could get the words out fast enough.

"Imperat tibi majestas Christi, æternum Dei Verbum, caro factum"

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The Weasel twitched as Sam spoke, the feral smirk that formed hardly something one wants to see from a demon when trying to exorcise him.

"Shut him up."

"He's crazy man, what the hell's he spoutin anyway?"

"Qui pro salute generis nostri tua invidia perditi, humiliavit semetipsum facfus hobediens usque ad mortem;"

The Ferret twitched again, and then groaned before swinging a fist at Sam once more. The fist hit hard at the corner of his mouth, the force of the blow sending him and the chair to the floor with a grunt on impact. The blood that dribbled past his lips was swiped away (at least in part) with a turn of his head that had Sam swiping his face on the shoulder of his shirt. But then he began speaking again.

"Qui Ecclesiam suam ædificavit supra firmam petram, et portas inferi adversus eam nunquam esse prævalituras edixit, cum ea ipse permansurus omnibus diebus usque ad consummationem sæculi."

"What the fuck?!"

Frank's explicative was ignored in lieu of the man tied to the chair, the hunter that had killed his last host in order to save his brother … now they were going to both learn who the hell was in charge here. Starting with this little Latin spouting prick!

Reaching down, he grabbed the fallen, tied man and hoisted him up with a strength no man his size should possess given the tied man was 6'4" and no lightweight, and he was tied to a chair that was an added 50 pounds. But the host known as The Weasel … and by his momma simply Brett, did so with ease … a moment before Sam flew through the air to slam into the wall. The chair shattered and broke and the man tied to it (along with all the pieces) fell with a thud to the hard floor.

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Dean had left the bar so fast he forgot one thing … he didn't know where Baker Street was. So … one 7-11 stop later, he had a map and directions; though he wasn't at all sure he trusted Abdul with getting him to Sam; the man could barely speak English after all.

The Impala left a trail of burned rubber as Dean peeled out and sped toward his destination, toward Sam.

"I swear to God, Sammy, human or not, those bastards are gonna pay."

He tried not to glance at the empty seat beside him, the one that, after something like that, he would have heard: _"Dean, we can't, they're just people."_

With a growl, one that came as if that empty seat talked, he muttered. "Shut up, Sam…."

His foot hit the accelerator, sending the black, classic car speeding into the night to try and race away his thoughts. What if they'd really hurt Sam? Or worse, what if they'd killed him?

Dean growled at his own thoughts and cut the corner to Baker Street too fast, causing a squealing protest from his tires.

He, for once, ignored what his baby had to say.

Instead, he was eyeing the desolate street where Sam was held against his will. The houses, what little there was at the beginning of the street, were fast on their way to becoming condemned. But after the first block, they changed to businesses; old run-down shops that had seen their last profit a decade ago.

Now it was just a place for the slum lords and drug dealers to hang out.

The few that were on the streets turned to stare at the black beast roaring by. Dean ignored them; they were of little consequence. Unless they touched his baby, then after he got Sam out, he would so kick their drug dealer asses! But that was neither here nor there as he came to the end of the street where what looked like it once used to be an old grocery store stood in near ruins.

The thought of Sam in that place made his blood boil.

Dean didn't care that he parked right in front; let the bastards know he was coming. He only paused long enough to riffle through the weapons bag in the trunk, and just because he was cautious, he brought along the shot gun filled with rock salt.

No one could ever say Dean packed lightly!

With a smirk, he started for the store.

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Being a Winchester, Sam was resourceful. Often times they had no weapon handy, and had to use what was available. So when he hit the ground with a clatter of wood hitting his back, he stilled, feigning unconsciousness. After all, he'd been unconscious enough times to fake it, and now was a test of that skill.

So he stilled … and waited. At least until the weasel bent over him. He held his breath as the man grabbed the back of his shirt and tugged him up. He counted to three. Three heartbeats. Three breaths. And then that hunk of wood from the chair that had splintered was grabbed and slammed into the demon possessed weasel's thigh.

"Oh you fucking bastard! You'll pay for that!"

"You first!"

With a death grip around his only weapon, he shoved hard, the force driving the stake through the man's leg, with a hunk protruding from each side.

It was the last act of retribution that Sam got to make before he flew into the wall once more … and stuck.

"Oh you are so going to pay for that."

Black eyes bore into him, and Sam took a breath (or at least tried to) before he forced out the words in a voice that lacked the surety that he usually possessed.

" Imperat tibi sacramentum Crucis, omniumque christianæ fidei Mysteriorum virtus."

"Hey Frankie, there's someone coming. Drives a big, black car…"

The demon possessing Brett grinned as he twitched at the exorcism and smirked at Sam.

"Say good night, Sam."

With a flick of his wrist, Sam was jerked forward, and then slammed back; the action repeated, each time marked with a thud as Sam's head hit the wall. On the third pass a splatter of blood left a smear, and the youngest Winchester no longer tried keeping his head afloat. He couldn't … the game of cat and mouse was over, for Sam was no longer feigning unconsciousness.

With a smirk from the demon, Sam crumbled to the floor in a heap.

Glancing down, the possessed man wrapped his hand around the stake in his leg and, with a grimace, jerked it free. The other men (and one questionable lady) stared in shock as their cohort walked as if nothing had ever happened. Right up to the fallen and very limp man.

A hand reached out to touch his cheek in what looked like a loving caress as his lips were licked in anticipation. With a deep inhale of Sam's scent, he murmured.

"Now the real fun begins…."

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Please, PLEASE leave me some chocolate!

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	4. Chapter 4

After a hunt goes wrong, Sam tries to escape with a bit of liquor and a game of pool … and learns that demons just don't take defeat easily! Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean!

I was just crossing the boarder with the Mounties took one look at my ID and claimed … I was a witch! So, after enduring the dunking torture for days (I thought that went out with the Salem Witch Trials!) I'm back on my way! Watch out Sam and Dean, here I come!

What's even sadder? This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine! Mine I tell you, all mine!

Reviews are the best drugs alive! They give you a good high, leave you begging for more, and have no side effects! And many thanks to those of you that have reviewed thus far, you guys rock!

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Dean Winchester had this uncanny ability to sense things without seeing what was out of place before he got that niggling feeling that something just wasn't right. He could pick up the presence of a ghost sometimes before one beep came out of the EMF meter. It was something that had stupefied John, especially when it came to Dean's ability to pick up on all things Sam.

Ever since he'd carried a 6 month old Sam from their burning house in Lawrence, Dean had been so attuned to his brother that it was often times scary. There was the time when Sam was three and Dean caught him just before he took a tumble down the stairs. There was the time when he was ten and Dean intercepted a bully (giving him a taste of his own medicine) without Sam ever saying a word. He didn't have to, Dean could just feel it.

Now that's not to say nothing bad ever happened to Sam; plenty bad had happened to Sam ... but with Dean around, the bad just got thwarted half the time.

Dean also knew that Sam not only did the same for him (there was that whole poltergeist incident in Albuquerque) but he also kept him grounded in a way no one ever had; not even the late, great John Winchester.

So it was no wonder that when Dean started for what was once a store, the hairs on the back of his neck rose like hackles, his guard instantly going up ... as if it needed an excuse. Without making it to the door, he knew something was wrong.

First and foremost being ... he never should have made it to the door.

A gang, a real gang, would have shot him dead as he came across the lawn; especially given the weaponry he carried. Not that every weapon Dean had was visible, but the rifle was quite obvious as Dean hefted it up in the trek across the small parking area.

The second ... well, that was the click as he edged along the building toward the half torn off door that would take him to Sam.

"Don't move."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but other than that, he complied, his entire body stiffening as he felt the barrel of the gun pressed into the leather that Dean was hardly seen without.

"Now, hand over your weapon."

"Where's Sam?"

"Oh, yes … Sam."

"Where … is … he?"

The big guy who lacked the brains to fight his way out of a wet paper bag grinned then, the gun he held loosened just a touch as he gloated to the one man that he should have paid more attention to.

"He put up quite the fight, though he won't be fighting anymore."

"Where . Is . He?"

"He's Brett's toy now. Bastard had to go and fight back. Started rattling some gibberish."

"What … ?"

"Me, I think Brett hitting him over the head with the bottle rattled his brains. But after he slammed him to the floor, yeah … Sam's brain is mush, man. He just kept right on spewing out that nonsense though. "

Their 'muscle' (because he damn sure wasn't their brains!) grinned, his attention distracted with the vivid recollection of their prey slamming into the wall several times. He should have paid better attention. He should never have underestimated his target.

"He bleeds pretty though."

Dean spun, the rifle in his hand used for beating rather than shooting. The impact came right as a shocked Al fired his own weapon.

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Harold Dinsmore looked like he belonged in a college classroom with a protractor in his pocket and tape on his glasses rather than in an abandoned store with a bunch of wanna-be thugs that had nothing better to do than beat up on some guy who had done nothing more than beat them at a few games of pool.

Maybe he had hustled them, but judging by how hard he'd fought to make it out of Jake's, it was obvious that the guy had more going for him than a good shot. His fight moves had been calculated and precise, as if he'd been trained for that moment.

Not like the thugs he hung around with.

They threw choppy (if not wild) punches and only landed good ones when their opponents were sloppy. Or when they ganged up on them as they had the tall guy from the bar. Still, he'd managed to outfight them all (including Al!) and would have made it out no worse for wear had Brett not clubbed him with that bottle.

Still, Harold wondered about that. Not about hitting the guy (though it was a dirty move) but at the timing of it all. It was almost as if Brett was waiting for the poor guy to think he made it before slugging him hard enough to crumble him to the ground.

Harold, despite running around with lowlife, had to admire that in the man. He'd secretly hoped he'd gotten away. Though that was neither here nor there as he played lookout at one of the barred windows. Not like he could see anything anyway in the dark.

Turning, he glanced to first Frankie (who had the strangest look on his face, like he'd lost control, but was too afraid to take it back) and then to Brett.

It was Brett that scared him. Brett that probably scared Frank too. Brett who, by all rights, should have bled out from the hunk of chair the tall (was that Latin he was spouting out?) guy had shoved into his leg so deep it protruded out the other side. Brett who sat in the far back on a old, torn up couch that someone had dragged in a few years back; one that had probably seen more action than a no-tell motel. He sat at one end, staring at the door with that Sam guy sprawled out, his head resting in his lap, and a hand caressing the man's hair as if he loved the man rather than having nearly beat him to death moments ago.

The shift of the rodent look man's eyes met his own assessing stare, and Harold looked away quickly to stare back out the window just as that shot echoed out, what was left of the glass shattered, and Harold's eyes widened for a split second before he fell in a crumbled heap on the floor.

He definitely would have been better off in a classroom.

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It took Dean a moment to even realize the gun had gone off, and another three to realize he was one lucky bastard as the only thing he'd received was a flesh wound as the bullet grazed his arm in that errant shot gone wild from the blow that he'd delivered to Al.

Though the moment Dean swung around to club Al with everything he had, the pain in his side from a demon-induced wound of earlier made itself known. Sam had diligently stitched the wound closed while Dean was passed out. He knew this because of the tug of the threads embedded in his flesh told him so. That and Sam never would have left him bleeding to go brood in a bar. Sam was emotive, but not the selfish bastard that their father had often called him.

Dean was walking away with nothing but a flesh wound for his efforts, not to mention a couple of pulled stitches. Al … was not so lucky. The prick learned the hard way what happened when you fucked with one Winchester … you faced the wrath of both. Once upon a time John led the vengeance patrol that was the Winchester men, now it was up to Dean to fill shoes that, if you were to ask him, he hadn't a chance in hell of making work right.

Sam would have argued that point.

The thought of Sam got him moving. Reaching down, he snatched up the still smoking gun and moved around to the side of the building to not only catch his breath … but to calculate his next move.

If Sam were not in there his move would be simple: charge in, take out as many evil sons of bitches that he could, and hope the good guys all made it out in one piece.

That plan went down the shitter with Sam in there.

It's not that Dean didn't trust Sam to take care of himself; it was that Dean had no idea if Sam _could _take care of himself. He had no idea what condition Sam was in. After all, the last he heard Sam was dragged out of that bar; he'd seen the blood on the floor to prove it.

So there went that crappy assed plan.

But plan or no, he was spurred into action; not by Sam or his need to save him (though that was never _ever _forgotten!) but by the sound of the front door slamming as someone came out – because Al sure as hell wasn't going in.

At least not in corporeal form.

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"Ahhh shit!"

Frank damn near tripped over Al's body on his way out to investigate, all at the urging of Brett. It didn't slip passed him that somehow, during all this with that tall kid, that he had lost control of this little gang to Brett … also known as the Weasel.

"He's dead!"

Silence followed. Not one sound from within or without, so he turned to poke his head back in the door.

"Did'ja hear me? I said he's…"

The click was unmistakable from behind him as he felt the press of the gun's muzzle against the base of his skull; a shot fired from that angle meant for nothing else but to kill. And Frank didn't like those odds when it was his head in question.

"Inside … nice and slow."

Frank's hands came out as he slowly eased his way in, the darkness doing little to hide his fear. The man behind him stayed close, his own body used as a shield against Brett, who sat and watched with the kid unconsciously sprawled out.

"You seem to forget Dean, that I have the upper hand. I have your brother."

"Yeah, and I have your goon. That seems to make us even."

The world from within exploded, and Frank heard screaming … like a wail of some poor fool begging for help, begging for the pain to stop. Frank realized, just before he collapsed, that the scream was coming from him.

"There … now we're even."

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Please … I need … chocolate! I am using it to buy the boys!

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	5. Chapter 5

After a hunt goes wrong, Sam tries to escape with a bit of liquor and a game of pool … and learns that demons just don't take defeat easily! Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean!

So there I was, leaving little bags of M&M's to lure Dean and Sam into my trap … and all I caught for my troubles was a damn Wendigo! I think the thing took a liking to them.

What's even sadder? This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine! Mine I tell you, all mine!

Reviews are the best drugs alive! They give you a good high, leave you begging for more, and have no side effects! And many thanks to those of you that have reviewed thus far, you guys rock!

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"_Get him you bastards!" _

_As soon as his fist drew blood, Sam was quick on his feet, his father's training coming through loud and clear as he spun, his left leg coming up and around to hit the big guy in the side of the jaw. _

_"Stop him!" _

_Sam ducked under another fist, his own coming up to uppercut the small guy who seemed to be taking lessons from Napoleon. He jerked left, dodging out of a meaty hand that grabbed at his shirt, though completely missed dodging the fist that landed hard on the right side of his jaw. _

_The scream in the background was ignored, Sam couldn't tell if it was coming from the redhead, or the older lady behind the bar, and honestly, it didn't matter … he was too busy trying to get his ass out of there in one piece. Ducking another fist, his elbow came back for a hard blow into soft flesh that took the receiver's air with it. _

_Fists flew with each step that he made closer to the door, some his and some aimed at him … some he landed and some he felt the full impact of the blow, but when he spotted a clear path to the door, Sam didn't waste a second to make a break for his freedom. He was a foot from the door when his world exploded, though he only registered the pain for a split second … one second that flashed bright in his eyes. _

_And then the darkness claimed him just before he hit the floor._

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A groan emitted from Sam, one that made the distant pound in his head all too real, all too painful. But the hand, it brushed against his forehead, causing those worry lines that had started to soothe away.

Dean was here. It had all been a dream.

"_Get off him, you bastard."_

The lines etched again, that voice, distant and urging, telling him to wake up, that something was off, that something needed his attention.

"_Or you'll what …? I have the upper hand here."_

That hand brushed over his brow again, this time causing a wince, one Sam tried to pull away from, but his body, hell even his head was not cooperating. He was caught in some fog. Maybe he'd been hit harder with that bottle than he thought.

"_I'm gonna kill you, you know."_

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched into some semblance of a smile at the words of his brother. He'd made it after all, come to that crap-hole bar to rescue him.

"_That's big talk for a man without his brother."_

But he wasn't at the bar anymore, was he? He distinctly remembered a chair, and … Latin. Suddenly the pound in his head became all too real, making consciousness a not so wanted thing. The groan that time was very much his, very much real, and very loud to ears that just wanted to succumb to the darkness once more.

"Sam? Sammy?"

He sucked in a breath as hazels opened with a start, the burst of pain from the little bit of light causing his head to feel like an explosion of his brain would be a relief.

"Dean…."

The word was barely a whisper as his eyes closed again against the light. And while the pain was very real, the relief was as well, and it came through loud and clear in that one soft call of his brother's name.

"No, Sam, stay awake."

His eyes obeyed the command, even if his body wanted to fall into oblivion once more. But as soon as he was looking at Dean, _across from him_, and that very fact registered, something else did too … someone else had been comforting him.

With a start he jerked up … or at least tried to. The hand that pressed against his brow, the fingers that dug into the side of his head caused a groan that forced his eyes closed, forced him to relinquish that little bit of leeway to sitting up he had made.

"Not yet, Sam."

The pain rippled into five tiny pinpoints where each finger pressed, and Sam could do nothing but groan as his body tried curling in and away from the pain and away from that voice that was not Dean's.

"Get off him you sonofa…."

"One step closer and I'll kill him."

What had been a ripple of pain exploded in his head causing his body to jerk and draw in on itself, as if being smaller would drive the pain away.

"Ahhh God!"

"Stop it you bastard!"

For one split second the pain increased, making a cry rip past his lips. Later Sam would have sworn it was an hour, that he'd endured it for far longer than that second … but then it was gone as quickly as it had come, the twitch of his fingers the only thing remaining to tell him that the electric fire had been real.

"That was just a warning, Dean."

The voice started to dissipate, to fade into nothingness as blackness called, beckoned him into a place where pain didn't exist; where demons didn't exist … in a place where he didn't have to kill innocent girls because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Sam!"

His eyes obeyed the urgent call of his brother even if his body fought that command with every tired, stubborn inch of him. Oh but that call had hazels obeying to lock onto the worried gaze of Dean as his brother rushed forward.

"I warned you, Dean."

Sam barely had time to register those words, barely had time to comprehend what they meant before he was launched across the room with a force that cracked plaster when he hit the opposite wall.

"Sam!"

The call of his brother barely made it through the whirlwind of events as he first slammed into the wall and then dropped face first onto the floor with a groan that was deficient in sound as all the air rushed from his lungs before Sam was even aware it was gone.

"Sam!"

His brother's voice sounded a blur, like it was a million miles away and had to make it past the sound of the raging river that was his breathing to get to him. But he had little time to decipher why as the rattling behind him alerted him to another predicament. Despite his head, despite wanting to just lie there and not get up for a day, a week, hell, let's give it a month, he lifted his head to seek out the source of the noise.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear Dean, somewhere he could hear the distant pounding as if he were encapsulated in some airtight tomb. But that was of little consequence as he stared at the dusty, cobweb ridden cans as they rattled. His brows furrowed, it taking ones flight across the room to slam into his leg at full force for comprehension to make it past his concussed brain.

And then he was moving. Though it must have been a joke, one of those nightmares where no matter how fast you run, the whatever that is chasing you is always breathing right down your neck … right before you fall and subsequently wake up before you land.

Unfortunately, there was no wake up before face planting reprieval for Sam. His monster was all too real as he scrambled to his feet to race down the aisle of the abandoned grocery. Cans flew at him at a speed that would have impressed a race car driver, and every time that one hit, a yell of pain echoed out.

Somewhere in the distance, he swore he heard Dean, that he swore Dean was yelling something, but it all was drowned out by his own yell as a can that had to belong to the Jolly Green Giant himself slammed into his back, causing his legs to betray him as they stumbled then gave, leaving Sam to skid on the dirty, worn tile.

It should have been a suspension of his punishment, it should have been Sam's moment of rest, but as the shelves themselves started to rattle, Sam was clambering back to his feet to try and beat the clock and make it to the end of the aisle before it fell on him.

The rattle the old shelf made was deafening, drowning out the loud roar of his own heartbeat, and the cloud of dust that erupted when the thing finally tipped over, the domino effect taking several other shelves with it, and made sight impossible.

"Dean?"

There was no answering call, and with that swarm of dust particles making the Midwest's dust clouds seem tame, it was impossible to find his brother by sight.

"Dean?!"

Before the sound even finished echoing in the aftermath, Sam was airborne again, the impact as he hit the wall deafening him as the air from his lungs was forcibly ripped out, making that coughed groan sound like a mewling whisper, something a kitten would have made, not a grown man that was used to facing demons on a daily basis.

The rattling didn't catch his attention until one of the cans hit his leg from his suspended position where the wall seemed to grab and hold him as if he was some art piece to display with pride.

But he was a man, and he was a Winchester, and with that came a struggle of power … his sheer will against the force that held him. But another can hit hard in his stomach, this time the whimper was all him, though he barely had time to fully give into the pain it had caused as another can slammed into his arm.

Three more hit before Sam realized, with full certainty, that he was going to be pummeled to death. Two more before the welcoming spots of blackness came, and another before his head was lulling forward as he welcomed what those dancing spots meant. The darkness danced, bobbing around him as small explosions of pain hit his body.

Just before the inky black greeted him fully, a distant explosion reverberated in his ears. The acidic smell of gunpowder drifted around him, and Sam felt himself falling, sliding down a wall that never should have held him to begin with.

But with it, the welcoming shelter of darkness.

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Hey, don't worry about Dean's lack of protecting Sam; you'll understand more next chapter!

Reviews are like love! Give me lots of hugs and chocolate!

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	6. Chapter 6

After a hunt goes wrong, Sam tries to escape with a bit of liquor and a game of pool … and learns that demons just don't take defeat easily

After a hunt goes wrong, Sam tries to escape with a bit of liquor and a game of pool … and learns that demons just don't take defeat easily! Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean!

Ok, so I gave up going to Canada and ebayed the boys … and ended up with two blow-up dolls that I paid 59.99 a piece plus shipping!

What's even sadder? This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine! Mine I tell you, all mine!

Reviews are the best drugs alive! They give you a good high, leave you begging for more, and have no side effects! And many thanks to those of you that have reviewed thus far, you guys rock!

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"_I warned you, Dean." _

Dean had known before he entered the store that there was a demon within. Al had told him. Well, not in so many words, but the moment he said Sam kept spouting gibberish, Dean had pretty much guessed.

Frank damn near imploding in front of him had confirmed his suspicion.

But nothing had prepared him for watching Sam fly across that room, the sickening thud he made as he hit first plaster (leaving a Sam sized dent) and then hit the floor. Dean had inwardly winced before he raced for his brother … only to hit an unseen force that kept him from doing his job.

It wasn't the saving people; hunting things job … it was protecting Sam. The Winchester family mantra. The thing his father had drilled into his head before the whole _might have to kill him _thing. Even Bobby said it a few times with his _Look after yer brother, you idjit_.

It was their bible and Dean wasn't about to start sinning now.

"Sam!"

Fists beat at the force keeping him from his brother, his yells damn near deafening to his own ears. Though it hardly drowned out the laugh of the rodent looking man as black eyes turned to him with a feral grin.

"Don't look so upset, Dean, you have front row seats to your brother's demise."

"I swear if you hurt him you son of a bitch, I'll …"

Brett grinned, a finger flicked and the creak drew Dean's gaze from the demon possessed man to Sam, who was currently scrambling down the aisle to escape the shelves toppling on him.

Somewhere amidst the dust as the creak turned to a deafening roar when the shelves crashed into each other, Dean heard his name being called, the twitch of his lips at Sam's escape didn't pass Brett's notice as he glowered at the eldest Winchester.

"Oh I don't plan on hurting him, Dean."

The meaning was all too clear, and as Sam was air born once more, Dean's voice rang out, though it wasn't the tone that made Brett twitch, but the words.

"Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis."

Oh it didn't take a genius to figure out that a demon resided within Brett, he'd guessed that before he stepped foot in the door … but as cans started flying at Sam at a speed that was beyond uncomfortable, Dean realized one thing … he wasn't going to exorcise the demon from within in time.

Dean's jaw twitched, set in clear determination as a hand eased slowly behind his back. Brett, however, noticed the movement and turned a black gaze to the hunter, a grin tugging at his lips.

"Now that is just rude, Dean…."

"Oh my God, Frankie!"

Later, Dean Winchester might think an angel smiled down on him in the form of that redhead that emerged from the back room; her scream turning the demon's head before a darkening of his gaze had her slamming into a shelf and slumping to the floor.

It was only a split second that he needed as his hand came around bearing the colt. Brett turned his head just as the shot rang out, the smile on his face fading just before the body hit the floor.

The man he just killed was ignored, the woman that he had no idea if she was dead or not was ignored … all in lieu of closing that gap that had been barred moments ago to get to his brother.

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"_We gotta get out of here…"_

Awareness faded in, Dean's voice faded in, and Sam, despite feeling like he was run over by a truck (twice for good measure) cracked a grin. Dean was here … nothing else mattered.

"_You with me, Sammy?"_

The hum of the Impala was unmistakable, and Sam had to wonder, if for a split second as his head pressed against the cool glass, how he got here in the first place.

"Yeah…"

The words were low and murmured just before Sam was out again. They had both known he was lying anyway.

"_Come on Sam, I got ya…"_

He could feel Dean's presence under one arm, his weight leaning into that comfort zone that was his brother. His feet sort of fumbled beneath him in his beaten up attempt at walking, but only for a minute before he was falling, though that too was short lived as he pressed to one of the motel beds. He knew because while he could smell the cheap laundry detergent, underneath the cleanliness they tried to present he could smell sweat.

But he didn't have time to analyze how that very thought grossed him out before the blackness swam in and lulled him into that world where demons did not exist. Into a place that no matter what, his big brother always showed up in time.

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The pounding in his head announced he was alive long before Sam Winchester wanted to be. In fact, as he shifted and that pound turned into a full out, really crappy rock band, one not even Dean would like, he wished he was dead … or that at least unconsciousness would take him away. Kind of like that old commercial, except his would be oblivion. _Unconsciousness … take me away._

But he was a Winchester, and there was no such luck in that.

Not to mention the fact that something was being pressed into his hand; something small so he had to close his hand back to keep them from falling out.

"Take these."

He could feel the condensation of the bottle as it was pressed into his other hand next, and then the comfort of his brother as a strong hand was splayed at his back to help him up enough to swallow the pills.

Hopefully it was the good shit that would take him to la-la land for a few more hours.

"Sorry Sammy, it's not the good shit, I need you awake for a little while to recheck your head."

Sam would have rolled his eyes if it hadn't hurt so damn bad. And how did his brother do that anyway? It was almost like Dean was the psychic and could read his thoughts, like the time he'd snuck out to see Abby Baxter. She had been …

"Sam!"

And fingers were snapping annoyingly in front of his face as Dean leaned over to stare into his eyes.

"You with me?"

That time he did roll his eyes in little brother fashion as he pushed up to stand … too fast and the world tilted and wavered as Sam reached out for something, anything to steady himself. But before he could crumble (because his knees actually buckled at that one! And wouldn't Dean have a heyday later, saying how _Wittle Sammy _fainted!) Dean was there, pushing him back to a stance.

"Easy Sammy, your head got bounced around worse than any ball."

"Thanks, Dean, I've … got it…"

And he pushed off to head for the bathroom, though he could _feel _it … the hard stare of Dean's gaze as he watched every move he made like a hawk. Luckily for Sam he actually made it _in _the bathroom and got the door closed before his stomach totally went Benedict Arnold on his ass and spewed up whatever had been in his stomach.

Beer. He could taste it, and to Sam the worst puke in the world was alcohol coming up for a second time to say _"Hey, remember me, asshole? Thought you could handle me, didn't you dipshit?" _

God he hated puking. But not as much as he hated demons!

But one thing was predictable in all of this. Even as Sam prayed to the porcelain God in one more heave, he could almost count out the minutes before….

"Sam?"

The pound on the door was unmistakably Dean, and had Sam pushing up to flush the toilet and then lean over the sink to rinse the nasties out of his mouth.

He felt like he raked his tongue in a cat pan!

"Sam?! You okay in there?"

He jerked the door open just as Dean's fist was rising to pound the door again … and damn near got pounded again.

"What's taking you so long?"

Sam sighed and pushed past Dean to stumble toward the bed. It might have an underlying smell of sweat (and God he didn't even want to know from what!) but it would suit the purpose of lulling him back to sleep, not to mention…

"No sleeping, Princess."

Sam sighed and flopped on the bed to give his brother that little brother, petulant look causing a grin from Dean.

"We have to get moving, too many people saw your ass get dragged out by Weasel Black Eyes and his rowdy bunch of idiots."

"Dean I…"

"What were you doing there anyway, Sam?"

"I was…"

"You could have been killed! You almost _were_ killed!"

"But I…"

"What were you thinking anyway?"

"That I killed a girl, Dean!"

That statement paused his brother's tirade and had him leveling that hard gaze at him … a gaze that softened almost instantly as Sam's voice lowered from that exasperated tone to one of resignation.

"That demon almost killed you. And I … I didn't hesitate, I just aimed and fired and …"

Sam swallowed and looked down as he picked at an imaginary piece of lint from the jeans he'd been put to bed in, the jeans he'd worn at the bar.

"Sam…"

But Sam cut him off; not with harsh words, but with the resigned tone of defeat.

"I'd do it again. Shoot anyone or anything just to save you."

And that's what bothered him, didn't it? That he could so callously shoot someone without hesitation, without thought. That, while it might bother him later, in the heat of the moment he just squeezed the trigger and …

"Yeah … me too."

Sam pulled from his thoughts to stare at Dean, hazels narrowing slightly in thought as the sound of a gunshot echoed from memory.

For a moment, Sam had thought he was alone in the world, had thought no one else understood him and how he was feeling. But as the memory of that blast reverberated through his mind he was reminded that no matter what, they were in this together. That no matter what, Dean understood him better than anyone else in the world.

And for just a moment, the world didn't seem so damn bad.

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Thanks for coming along for the ride! PLEASE review and tell me what you thought.

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